


The sky is always falling down on me

by Apuzzlingprince



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Vampire AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-14 14:06:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7174868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apuzzlingprince/pseuds/Apuzzlingprince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry had lead a long, eventful life. He could say with certainty that he was happy with what he had achieved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

 

 

Harry had lead a long, eventful life. He could say with certainty that he was happy with what he had achieved.

During his first year at Hogwarts, Harry had defeated an adult wizard with nothing but his bare hands. The quivering, stuttering Quirinus Quirrell had been growing paler as the year had advanced. His turban had been swapped for a wide-brimmed hat and his thick, purple cloak grew progressively thicker, covering up what little skin remained visible. Snape had known immediately what these changes indicated, while he, Ron, and Hermione had assumed Snape the bad guy. As vampires had been firmly in the realm of fiction for Harry up until that point, he never would have guessed that was what Quirrell had turned into.

Following that encounter, Dumbledore told him exactly what Quirrell was - or had been, rather, and why he had been that way.

Quirrell had been turned into a vampire by Voldemort, who had contracted the disease some decades ago. It’d not been his intention to become a vampire, Dumbledore told him, but all it took was a nibble to infect another person and Voldemort had put himself in close quarters with throngs of vampires while researching them as a route to immortality. The affliction was irreversible. Whether he liked it or not, Voldemort had been turned into a vampire and he’d had no choice but to maneuver his plans around his need for blood and aversion to simple everyday things like sunlight and garlic.

Upon reuniting with Hermione and Ron, Harry had relayed all the information Dumbledore had given him; Hermione, of course, had immediately started criticizing herself for not making the connection.

His second year had been just as fraught with danger, if not more so. Giant snakes, petrification, possession. Ginny Weasley had been slipped a simple leather-bound book by Lucius Malfoy, who had ensured Voldemort would be able to communicate with and control her by smudging the pages with a drop of her blood. He had achieved that by ‘accidentally’ nicking her hand with his walking stick as he rounded on Arthur, and no one had been the wiser. Not even Ginny, who had only scowled in response. When Harry had descended into the Chamber of Secrets in an effort to save Ginny, an apparition of Tom Riddle had extended from the pages of the diary, mocking him, telling him he and Ginny were going to die. Tom had been wrong. He’d told him as much as he yanked the basilisk fang out of his arm and stabbed it through the middle of the diary. The connection had been severed and Ginny Weasley had lived.

His third year kept to a similar theme. Except this time, something good came of it: Peter Pettigrew may have escaped, but he received a Godfather as compensation. The time he spent with Sirius were some of the best days of his life.

And then everything had come crashing down in his fourth year: Voldemort could not only touch him now, but had a rejuvenated body to do it with. He was no longer a small, flayed creature barely the size of Harry’s forearm, but a tall, pale man with fine black hair framing his gaunt features. He would have been attractive were there not something distinctly serpentine about him. His red irises unsettled Harry.

Worst of all, Cedric Diggory was dead, murderer by Voldemort’s hand, and there was nothing Harry could do but return his corpse to Cedric’s father.

The rest of that year was a short, horrifying blur, after which he had spent an entire summer being infuriated at his circumstances.

He didn’t even want to think about the mess that had been his fifth and sixth years, but he was reasonably proud of how hard all his friends had fought against Voldemort’s regime when he had been forced out of Hogwarts and onto the streets. At seventeen years old, after months of running and hiding and trying to find something – anything – that would help them defeat Voldemort, his seventeen years of life had reached its culmination: he needed to die. As long as he was alive, Voldemort would live eternal, and it wasn’t because he was a vampire: it was because Harry harboured a piece of Voldemort’s soul.

Dumbledore had guessed that Voldemort, feeling threatened by the prophecy, had intended to turn the Potter’s deaths into a horcux. His soul was by no means weak, even with his vampiric ailment, but blood magic was amplified by the presence of a vampire and it was blood magic that had protected Harry. The killing curse rebounded – nearly killed Voldemort as it did, and a half of Voldemort’s soul had been bound to Harry’s body as a glue that kept the protective wards together. All this time, it had been Harry who’d been sustaining Voldemort; Harry who had anchored him to this realm. As long as he was alive Voldemort would continue to live.

So, for the sake of the wizarding world, Harry was walking to his death.

He had lead a long, eventful life, and he had fought every step of the way. He could be proud of that. Die knowing he had done everything he could to prevent Voldemort from taking control of the wizarding world, even if this wasn’t an ideal ending to his story. He didn’t want to leave Ron and Hermione and beautiful, vibrant Ginny alone; it felt like abandoning them, but what choice did he have? He had to die so someone else could step up and be the hero.

“I am about to die,” he whispered to the snitch, and he was guided to his death by the loving words of those he would soon be reunited with.

The chilly air that pervaded the Forbidden Forest made Harry’s lungs ache. It was misty and dark and for a moment Harry feared he wouldn’t be able to find Voldemort before they began their descent on the school. Those worried were forgotten as he stepped into a clearing, overhearing the dulcet tones of Tom Riddle voicing his confusion at Harry’s absence. It put his teeth on edge to hear Tom speaking of him so demurely, like he was chastising Harry for refusing to attend a tea party. If his blood weren’t so cold he might have felt the angry flush that rose to his ears.

“It seems I was… mistaken.”

Taking a deep breathe, he stepped into Voldemort’s line of sight, announcing his presence with, “You weren’t.”

Voldemort’s red eyes gleamed in the moonlight as they roved over Harry’s form, up and down until he was certain it was indeed Harry Potter who had entered their midst. And then those pale lips parted in a smile. It was a handsome smile, as much as Harry hated to apply such a compliment to Voldemort. Even with those strange, serpentine features, there were some vestiges of the handsome Tom Riddle retained in the structure of his face. It was just human, just appealing enough to make Harry uncomfortable; he would have preferred Voldemort to look like a monster.

There was a chorus of sound around them. Giants roaring, Death Eaters jeering and gasping and laughing, and then a voice yelled: “Harry! No!”

Hagrid was bound by his wrists and tied to a nearby tree like an animal. His desperate struggling shook the branches hard enough to dislodge its leaves.

“No! No! What’re yeh doin’ here?”

“Silence!” bellowed Rowle, flicking his wand to silence Hagrid. The half-giants eyes bulged in their sockets, full of horror at what he was about to witness.

Harry’s eyes quickly snapped back to Voldemort. He couldn’t stand to see Hagrid’s expression before he died.

“Harry Potter,” he extended in greeting, his voice misting the air. “The boy who lived.”

Harry said nothing. He merely took a deep breath, reading himself for the end. He wanted it to happen quickly, while he could still stand, before he lost control and betrayed fear. He didn’t want to give Voldemort the pleasure of knowing how terrified he actually was.

Leaves crunched underfoot as Tom approached. Harry watched him come closer and closer and- wasn’t he a little too close to perform the killing curse? Surely there needed to be a few more feet between them. But Tom didn’t stop, crossing the forest until he was standing before Harry, hovering over him like death itself. As Harry stared up at him, determined to maintain eye-contact, he felt a distant probing sensation he immediately associated with –

Shit! Legilimency!

He was too slow to prevent Tom from invading the depths of his mind; when he tried to jerk away, thin white fingers rose to his face, cupping his cheeks to pull him back in.

“Geddof-!” he cried out, but Voldemort interrupted him.

“Hush, precious.” He was so close that Harry could feel his cool breath roll over his face. “I needed to make sure…”

“Make sure of what?” Harry demanded in a snarl, his hands coming up to curl around Tom’s wrists. Those thin slips of flesh and bone felt deceptively strong beneath his trembling fingers.

“That you were mine.” One of his hands delved for the back of Harry’s head, curling around a fistful of hair. “You think I wouldn’t notice if half my soul were missing, Harry Potter? Oh, I certainly noticed; it just wasn’t until recently that I realized what our connection signified.”

Harry’s mind was reeling. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go.

Voldemort made some additional hushing sounds as he attempted to free himself, his pale mouth stretching into such a broad smile that the tips of his pearly white teeth were visible. They were all sharp.

“I wanted to deny it, vehemently so, but I soon came to recognize it for what it truly was: a blessing.”

“A blessing? _How_?” Harry asked, his voice hoarse. “I-I have a piece of you inside of me, and when I die-“

And it was seconds before Voldemort descended on his neck that his mind provided him with an answer: he wasn’t going to die. Not today, not ever, because as long as he was alive so was Voldemort.

As those sharp, white teeth slid into his neck with the ease of a sharpened knife, he was enveloped by a sense of calm and fullness that he should have found disturbing. Those were the last things he wanted to associate Voldemort with. But it was such a profound comfort that his eyes fell shut and his body became limp in Voldemort’s grip. An arm wound itself around his waist to keep him upright, cradling him like a lover. The residue of panic that persisted in the back of his mind was being wiped away by the warmth coiling through his veins.

The grip on his hair had softened, no longer threatening to uproot the messy black strands. The way Voldemort was pressed flush against him, lips roving over his neck, quite literally sucking the life out of him could almost be interpreted as sensual. At this peculiar sight, all but one of his Death Eaters had fallen silent; Bellatrix Lestrange’s laboured breathing was loud enough to be audible. Had Harry any sense of his surroundings he would have thought she sounded furious.

His body was rapidly starting to lose its colour. The pink that had risen on his face in response to the cold was drained away, replaced by a white almost indistinguishable from the white of bone. His eyes, which had fallen shut, were starting to roll into the back of his head. It wouldn’t be long before he passed out. And all the while he felt inexplicably warm.

It was when a tingling sensation reached the tips of his fingers that Voldemort finally withdrew, breathing deep for a moment, seeming to need to recover his senses before Harry heard him bite into something else. Awareness was slowly, sluggishly returning to him. He tried to wrench open his eyes but found the lids too heavy. His fingers were still tingling, as though suffering from pins and needles.

“Drink,” he heard Tom whisper, and a slick patch of skin was pressed to his mouth. “I need you to drink if you’re going to survive the journey.” It was an open wound, steadily dripping blood. The mere smell of it was making Harry salivate. Thought he struggled against his new-born instincts, Harry’s tongue darted out on its own accord, probing the wound, eliciting a hiss from Tom. Any remnants of humanity dissipated as he attached his mouth to Tom’s wrist and began to suck, bringing great mouthfuls of blood into his gullet. It was like having copper coins sloshing around his mouth.

Tom’s hissing increased in volume after the sixth swallow and the wound was yanked away, the hand in his hair tightening once more. “Greedy,” Tom admonished. His bloody mouth settled over his own, murmuring against his lips. “Now,” he whispered, his voice soft and coercive. “Go to sleep.”

And Harry did.


	2. Falling into heaven, falling into hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Harry awoke, he was surprised to find he wasn’t in a cage, or a cell, or tied to a bed. In fact, he wasn’t restrained at all.

When Harry awoke, he was surprised to find he wasn’t in a cage, or a cell, or tied to a bed. In fact, he wasn’t restrained at all. He was sitting in a comfortable wooden chair, his arms carefully arranged so he was braced on the surface of a dining table. At the opposite end of it, he was greeted with the sight of Tom dining on a very rare looking steak, cutting away small portions and forking the still-bleeding meat into his mouth. Earlier events slowly came back to Harry while he watched Tom eat, rising to the surface of his mind one after the other, and not necessarily in the right order.

The most prominent memory was that of being bitten. He unconsciously reached for his neck, fingering the broken flesh that extended across the tan skin. The mark felt impossibly big, though it was probably a lot smaller than Harry was assuming. He swallowed as he considered what those teeth marks represented.

 _Don’t think about it_ , he told himself, feeling choked by his growing anxiety. _Don’t think about it_. He didn’t want to have to acknowledge what Voldemort had done to him.

When he raised a glare to the person responsible for his distress, he noticed Tom was staring at him. Just starting, completely silent and still. He must have finished eating his mouthful of food because even his jaw wasn’t moving. Harry became increasingly uncomfortable under the intensity of that gaze. Was Voldemort using legilimency to probe his thoughts? As a precaution, Harry dropped his eyes to his hands, curling them into tight fists as a show of resentment; if he couldn’t glare at Voldemort Harry’d let him know how much he loathed him in other ways.

He tried to straighten his body and involuntarily groaned, his limbs feeling heavy and unpliable, like they were full of lead. It was only now that he noticed how badly he ached. This must have been what Tom was waiting for, because he heard the man rise from his chair and approach. His footsteps were muffled by a rug that ran the length of the table, but were still audible. The leather of his shoes squeaked as he stepped onto the floorboards and came to a stop beside Harry.

“You must be famished,” he said, and with a flick of his wand, a meal appeared before Harry. It was a steak, rarer than he had ever seen a steak be, and a tall glass of wine – no, not wine. Blood. Harry’s stomach ached with want, his body trembling with the effort it took to restrain his baser instincts.

“I’m not hungry,” he ground out.

Voldemort laughed. It was a soft, cold laugh. “You've been unconscious for hours. Of course you’re hungry.” The plate was nudged closer to him. “Eat.”

“No.”

“ _Eat_.”

Swallowing hard, Harry swiped the plate and glass off of the table, to the floor. It hit the floorboards with a great crash of breaking porcelain and glass. Harry didn’t turn to look. He didn’t know what awful things his instincts would prompt him to do if he saw a puddle of blood spreading on the floor.

Voldemort tsked. “I’m going to be patient with you, Harry, but even Lord Voldemort has his limits. I suggest you try to avoid toeing over them; I don’t think you’ll appreciate the results.”

“Yeah?” he turned, snapping the word at Voldemort. He determinedly kept his eyes away from the mess he’d created. “Can’t be much worse than what you’ve already put me through!”

“Whoever said _you_ would be the one punished?” With a wave of Voldemort’s hands, the ruined meal disappeared.

The confidence was knocked out of Harry. “W-what?” he stammered.

“I thought you might behave like this. That is why, before leaving Hogwarts, I acquired one of your friends.”

Harry’s eyes were so wide as to almost be comical. “Who? If you’ve done anything to them-!”

“Oh _please_ , Harry. They were acquired specifically to ease you into your new role here; injuring them would be counterproductive.” Tom turned to walk away. Harry wanted to follow, but the moment he was on his feet his legs trembled like those of a newborn foal. His knees were buckling before he’d even passed the rug.

Voldemort turned and arched an eyebrow at him, observing him as he sunk to the floor. Harry’s face warmed with shame.

“You’re doing this on purpose!” he snapped.

“No,” said Voldemort smoothly. “You did that to yourself by refusing the meal I so generously offered. Had I felt so inclined, I may have even divulged the whereabouts of your friends while you ate. But evidently your _pride_ is more important than their safety.”

“What do you mean-? I already know where my friend is! You’ve captured them!”

“Come now, Potter. You’re smarter than that.” Voldemort continued walking, his steps slow and languid. “I said friend _s_. I’m referring to the events following your capture.” He glanced over his shoulder at Harry. “Do you really think I simply left Hogwarts alone after having your friends form a resistance against me?”

“But if I came, you said-!”

“I said I wouldn’t kill them. I never said I wouldn’t do something else to them.”

Harry’s throat was suddenly very dry. “What’d you do? What’d you do to them?”

“Separated them.” Voldemort resumed walking. “I’ll be back shortly.”

Harry opened his mouth to yell after him – and then closed it with a sharp clack of his teeth. Saying anything at this point would be a futile effort. Voldemort was already halfway out the door; he wouldn’t indulge Harry’s anger. By yelling and struggling he was only making things worse on whoever it was Voldemort had captive.

He managed to drag himself back into his seat before Voldemort returned. The effort had rendered him silent and still, sweat beading down from his forehead, his shoulders quaking with the exertion it took to remain upright. He didn’t even have the energy to lift his head to look at Voldemort. He had a vague understanding of why he was so tired but he was determined not to think about it.

Voldemort made that difficult by taking one of his hands and molding it around a wine glass. There was blood in it. Even if he refused to look at it, he could smell it, and it smelt delectably fresh. Wrinkling his nose, he attempted to withdraw his hand so the glass would drop. He didn’t succeed, Voldemort’s grip ensuring his hand remained hovering in mid-air.

“Drink,” instructed Voldemort.

Harry would have liked to turn his head and utter ‘no’ right into Voldemort’s face, but the most he could manage was a dissenting grunt. Voldemort seemed to understand the answer he was trying to convey, however, as the grip on his hand started pressing the glass closer to his mouth, to his nostrils, the scent of the blood making Harry jerk in his seat. The closer it got to him, the more apparent his thirst became. He swallowed and his throat felt profoundly dry.

“Drink,” Voldemort said again, and dipped one of his fingers into the blood, smearing it across Harry’s bottom lip.

Suffice to say, Harry _lost his mind_. The contents of the glass was swallowed in great mouthfuls and once it had been licked clean Harry was still so horribly, achingly thirsty that he turned on Tom, reaching for his arm with shaking hands. The wine glass lay forgotten in his lap. Unbeknownst to him, his eyes had gone black, the pupil blown so wide it swallowed up the bright green iris.

One of Voldemort’s thumbs slid into the side of his mouth, pressing down on his molars to keep it open. He then retrieved the glass, refilled it, and proceeded to empty it into Harry’s mouth. Harry didn’t even care that a good deal of it slopped down his chin, soaking into the collar of his shirt. He didn’t care how obscene he looked. There was nothing left of him but a volatile need for sustenance.

The glass was refilled once, twice, three times, and it was only after the third glass that consciousness started to return to Harry. He jerked his head away, feeling dizzy and confused and disgusted as he tried to put some distance between himself and Voldemort. The chair toppled over, taking him with it. The thump of his body landing on the floorboards reverberated throughout the room.

“You did well, Harry,” said Voldemort, his voice cloyingly sweet.

Harry wanted so badly to be sick, to empty his stomach of everything he had just swallowed. “Get away from me!” he snarled, though Voldemort hadn’t yet attempted to approach him.

“Your determination to refuse me was… admirable,” Voldemort continued. He was, as always, completely unphased by Harry’s anger. “The scent alone would have been enough to persuade anyone else to give in.”

“Even you?” Harry asked, his voice cold with loathing.

Voldemort regarded him dryly. “But as admirable as you determination is, it’s also vexingly juvenile.”

“Good. I wouldn’t want to make this _easy_ for you.”

“I didn’t expect you would.” Voldemort finally began his approach. “Now, Harry. Where do you think you’re going?”

“Away from you,” Harry spat as he lunched for the closest exit.

He only managed to grab a few feet of personal space before Voldemort summoned him back with a flick of his wand. An arm wound around his waist, guiding him back to the table. The chair had been righted. He was pressed into it, Voldemort’s hands lingering on his shoulders to ensure he would remain seated. It wasn’t a tight grip, but any physical contact from Voldemort was unwelcome enough to make him go as rigid as a board. The line of his shoulders was so tense that it gradually worked its way into his jaw, and then his scar, making his temples throb with an impending headache.

“Relax, Harry; you’re going to be here for a while,” whispered his captor, leaning over Harry so the sleeves of his long, black cloak fell over Harry’s arms. The material felt more like air than fabric. Was there anything about Voldemort that wasn’t unearthly?

“Now,” he continued. “Wouldn’t you like to hear about your friend? They just did a very thoughtful thing for you.”

Harry fought back the urge to leap out of the chair. Not only would it be a pointless effort, but he would likely be deprived of information as a consequence. “If you hurt them…”

“Well, aren’t you intuitive.”

Harry’s jaw was starting to hurt with how hard he was clenching it. “Does that mean you did hurt them, or are you just trying to screw with me?”

“I don’t need to employ lies to do that. The truth is just as sufficient.”

“Give me a straight answer!”

The grip on his shoulders moved to his neck, applying pressure to the teeth marks. “You need to learn to behave, Potter. You’re in no position to be demanding anything of Lord Voldemort. Or does the well being of your friend really matter so little to you?”

Harry managed to bite back a retort. “No.”

“Good boy. Now then, do you want to hear about your friend?”

Harry wanted nothing more than to punch Voldemort in the face. It would have been a very momentary satisfaction, but satisfaction nonetheless. “ _Yes_.”

The pressure on his neck decreased. “That blood you just drank was kindly donated by Luna.”

Had Harry enough blood for it, it would have run cold. He felt ill. Dizzy and shaky and his scar was hurting worse than ever. He wished it would compel him to vomit like a normal, alive human being would have done in this situation. In lieu of a normal bodily response, he stood so abruptly from the chair that Voldemort wasn’t able to restrain him in time to prevent his ascent. He didn’t even know why he stood; he just felt he couldn’t continue sitting there while Luna was trapped somewhere within this massive mansion, hurt and scared (well, maybe not scared, because Luna had always been surprisingly tenacious).

Voldemort did nothing to prevent him from moving away from the table. He kept his eyes on Voldemort as he retreated, resulting in almost tripping over the rug.

Once there were several feet of space between them, he finally spoke. “Let her go. Let her go back to her father. You’ve already got me; why do you need her?”

“I already told you why she’s needed, boy,” Voldemort replied. “Because you won’t listen and you won’t learn until the well being of another person forces you to look beyond your own pride.”

“I’ll listen,” he ground out, visibly pained by the thought of compliance. “Just let her go.”

“I’ll consider it once I’ve seen her presence have its intended effect on you.”

Harry took a deep, calming breath before he responded. “What do you want, then? Why don’t you just put me in a cage?”

“Because I expect things that I own to obey me without the need of restraints.”

Harry felt his face warm with disgust and anger. If he snapped now, he could hardly be blamed for it. But he didn’t, because it was more than just his own neck at risk right now. He didn’t want to cause Luna any more pain than he already had.

He said nothing. Even when Tom approached, he remained silent and still. A hand slid down to the small of his back and pressed him in the direction of an attached lounge room. He wordlessly allowed himself to be guided through the room, into a hallway that ended in a lavish staircase.

“Your rooms just up here,” Tom informed him, gesturing upstairs.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The bedroom wasn’t bad. In fact it was one of the nicest bedrooms Harry had ever seen. It was large and generously furnished, with a plush red carpet and a king-sized bed that took up a good quarter of the room. The mattress must have contained the wizard equivalent of memory foam because it immediately molded to Harry’s form. Under different circumstances he would have thoroughly enjoyed such a comfortable bed, but as he lay there, he couldn’t help but think of Luna in her cell, cold and miserable and forced to sleep on concrete. _And injured_ , he reminded himself, because they likely hadn’t been considerate of her well being while extracting the blood currently in his stomach.  

Or, if what he had read about Vampires was to be believed, well on its way to being in his veins.

Harry was suddenly overcome with the urge to cry, so he rolled over and shoved his face into the pillows to wait it out. This wasn’t how the war would end; him crying into his pillow, Voldemort victorious. Harry could still save everyone, especially now that he was forced to be in close quarters with Voldemort. He just needed to – to kill him, and then himself. He would find a way, even if he had to do it with his bare hands.

His fingers shook minutely as he lifted them to his head, carding them through his messy black hair. He didn’t like the idea of having to kill someone, even if that someone was the Dark Lord. He hadn’t even had it within himself to torture Bellatrix after she had killed his godfather right in front of him. Where he would find the will to do this, and if necessary, with his bare hands, he wasn’t sure, but what other choice did he have? He couldn’t just twiddle his thumbs and do nothing when people were dying and suffering, many on _his_ behalf. He didn’t doubt that part of the reason Luna was here was because she had stood up for him at a pivotal moment and Voldemort had decided to repay that loyalty with captivity.

He wondered if Ron and Hermione were alright, if Ginny had escaped Hogwarts unscathed, if Neville had managed to evacuate all the students before Voldemort had razed his way through. And then he ceased thinking about these things because they only made him feel worse. His thoughts strayed, instead, to his new ailment. As much as he would like to deny what had happened, Voldemort had turned him into a vampire. He was immortal, forever seventeen, with a few stipulations; he was sensitive to sunlight and required to subsist on blood. He tried to recall the lessons they’d taken on vampires in their first, third, and fourth year at Hogwarts, but could only recall vague details. Things like ‘Vampires can eat normal meals so long as they are supplemented with blood’ and ‘many vampires choose to subsist on blood acquired from animals’ and ‘one foul in 1473 consisted of a captain releasing a hundred vampire bats from beneath their robes’, the latter being particularly useless.

He touched his fingers to his teeth and was relieved to find they were still normal. No fangs. When they did show up, he doubted there would be more than two; Voldemort’s mouthful of razor sharp teeth were a unique feature, purposefully developed during the concoction of his resurrection potion. It distanced himself from the other vampires, made him ‘unique’. Tom was always trying to distance himself from things the wizarding world perceived as lesser.

After everything that had happened, it was no surprised that Harry found himself starting to doze. His mind was assaulted by memories of those he cared about in turmoil, and the dead, and all the lives irrevocably damaged because he hadn’t been the hero they needed him to be, and he was so plagued by these dreams that he was grateful to have them disrupted by the sound of the door opening. He shot upright, turning to frown at – Lucius Malfoy? The man looked downtrodden, his platinum blonde hair limp and a thin sheen of peach fuzz covering his jaw. There were great black bags beneath his equally as tired eyes. The grace with which he would usually hold himself was absent; he stepped inside, his shoulders drooping and his hands cupped against his abdomen like nervous spiders. It was as though he didn’t know what to do with them without his wand.

Harry didn’t take any pleasure in seeing the once regal man looking like this. If anything, it was awkward.

“The Dark Lord has requested your presence in the dining room,” Lucius said, managing to worm loathing into his voice despite his obvious fatigue.

“And if I say no?”

“He has assured me that you won’t.”

“Has he? Or maybe you want to believe that because you don’t want to get punished for failing a simple task.”

Lucius wrinkled his nose. “Potter, despite what you may believe of my position here, I’m aware of the girl we have captive. I know your ridiculous hero complex won’t allow you to endanger her life more than you already have.” He started closing the door, and it looked like it was an effort for him not to slam it. “You’re expected in five minutes. You’ll find a fresh set of robes in your wardrobe to change into. Oh, and try to do something with that mop you call hair; the Dark Lord expects better presentation of his _pets_.”

“Yeah, you would know!” Harry retorted as Lucius closed the door. There was an audible pause from behind it, Lucius inhaling sharply, but after a few seconds contemplation he decided against responding to Harry’s provocation. The sound of his footsteps carried until he’d reached the stairs.

Annoying Lucius wasn’t enough of an incentive to disobey Voldemort’s instructions. There would be hell to pay if he refused, and it wouldn’t be just him and Lucius paying it. Throwing his legs over the side of the bed, Harry stood and reluctantly approached the wardrobe, reaching in for the robes. The outfit he withdrew was, predictably, very green. The robe itself was a dark green, almost black, while the vest and t-shirt accompanying it were a lighter shade. The shoes and trousers were black. Harry took some relief in that; he couldn’t bear the thought of being green from head to toe.  

He put it on as quickly as possible to avoid lingering on how awful he felt about doing anything Voldemort wanted him to do and headed downstairs. Hopefully they would be alone, like they were before. It was one thing for Voldemort to see him like this, vulnerable and compliant, but it was quite another for all his followers to be there to jeer at him. He would be humiliated. Even more so than he already was.

Bracing himself for said jeers, he descended the last step and slowly strode through the threshold that lead to the dining room.

The only people present were Voldemort, Lucius, and Draco, all whom were seated at the table. Lucius didn’t even look at him as he took a seat as far away from them as possible. Draco kept on casting him furtive glances, appearing uncomfortable and nervous.

“Harry, so nice of you to finally join us.” Voldemort smiled across the table at him. “Lucius tells me you were reluctant to join us. I’m pleased to see you came to your senses.”

Harry pressed his mouth into a tight frown in an effort to maintain his calm. “Why’re they here?” he asked, gesturing to Draco and Lucius.

“Did you wish to have me alone?”

“No,” said Harry, snapping his eyes back to Voldemort.

“Then my answer shouldn’t concern you.” He turned and said something to Lucius, which Harry couldn’t quite hear from his distance, and Lucius stood from his chair and exited the room. Draco’s pallid face now had some colour around the cheekbones.

“You’re not going to…” It was an effort to get the words out. He wetted his lips. “Trick me into drinking Luna’s blood again, are you?”

The colour on Draco’s face had drained once more.

“As long as you behave, there’ll be no need for that.”

“Then whose blood are we going to drink?”

“It doesn’t much matter. Our donors aren’t alive enough to be aggrieved by their blood loss.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “Let me guess – you’ve got a bunch of muggles tied up in the basement or something?”

Voldemort leaned his chin on his knuckles, smiling at Harry. “It would be better for you if I didn’t answer that. In any case, I’m not in the mood for your questions. We’re going to have a nice, quiet breakfast, and then you will accompany me to the garden for a stroll.”

Harry was trying his best to maintain a calm exterior, but he was sure there was a vein popping out on his forehead. “…Fine,” was his terse reply. He glanced at Draco, who was no longer looking at him but staring down at the surface of the table with a carefully constructed mask of indifference. Despite this, he was sure Voldemort could feel the fear radiating off of him in waves.

Silence descended on the room. It was mercifully broken several minutes later by Lucius returning with two glasses and a bottle. The bottle looked like your traditional wine bottle, tall and green and corked for preservation, but Harry knew it wasn’t wine that was kept inside. When he drank from the chilled glass that was offered to him, it was only because he didn’t see any point in trying to protest; Voldemort would be able to force him to drink it if he refused, and this time Draco and Lucius would be here to witness his humiliation. While Voldemort savoured every sip, he drank his portion of the bottle as fast as possible, trying to ignore how inexplicably good it made him feel.  

When they were both finished - which took him a total of two minutes and Voldemort a total of ten - Lucius retrieved their glasses and the empty bottle. Tucking them under his arm, he ushered Draco out of his seat and fled the room with his son stumbling along at his side. Harry watched their retreating backs until they were out of sight.

“Well then,” said Voldemort, rising from his chair. “Let us go for a stroll, Harry.”

Harry looked longingly to the staircase leading to his room. “…Alright,” he said at last, following Voldemort to a set of towering double doors at the far end of the room. He was lead through the house, through lavish rooms and long hallways until they reached a beautiful sprawling courtyard. Wherever they were, it was the most ostentatious place he had ever seen. Was it the Malfoy estate? That would explain the presence of Draco and Lucius.

The sunlight made his skin tingle. He reached for his hood, but Tom swatted his hands back down to his sides.

“Wha-?”

Tom spoke over him. "If you avoid the sun you’ll only become more sensitive to it.”

He felt Tom’s hand between his shoulder blades and began a stride down the pathway. At the end of the path was a fountain surrounded by bricks of different shades of cream. The effect made it look as though it were giving off a pleasant glow. The fountain itself was constructed of marble and looked similar to that of the fountain in the Ministry of Magic. Except, of course, that the wizard in the congregation was depicted as being superior to all those surrounding him. Harry frowned at it. He wished he could destroy it like Dumbledore and Tom had the one at the ministry, all that time ago. The wizard would be so much more palatable without its head.

He was guided to the edge of the fountain, which he was made to sit upon.

“You should put me in a cell,” he said, glancing at his companion.

Voldemort perched himself beside Harry. “You would like that, wouldn’t you.”

“No.”

“Don’t _lie_ to me, boy,” Voldemort said, his voice cold. “I’m well aware of your status as a martyr.”

“I am _not_ a martyr!”

Voldemort raised a hand to Harry’s chin, grasping it and forcefully bringing Harry to eye level. “What did I just say?”

It was an effort not to bare his teeth in a snarl. “Fine. At least tell me why we’re currently sitting in a garden. Am I going to witness a public execution or something?”

“Of course not,” Voldemort said smoothly, releasing him. “I’m settling you into your new schedule. When I am present, we will visit the gardens every morning after breakfast, then you may shower and begin your studies-“

“My studies?”

“You didn’t think Lord Voldemort would allow you to forgo your final year of study, did you? Your education is a priority.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” whispered Harry, trying not to gape. “Why aren’t you just- shoving me in a box? Feeding me though tubes or something?”

“Would you like to be put in a box?”

“I…”

“Harry.” Voldemort’s voice had turned soft. “The vampire-kind do not take turning someone lightly. You may have noticed my followers, save for a select one, remain mortal.” Harry knew who he was referring to; Bellatrix. The only immortal follower among his flock. “This was, coincidentally, why I had to dispose of the man who turned me, but I digress. I had a purpose in mind when I turned you.”

“Let me guess – make me your diabolically evil protégé or something?”

“An appealing thought, but no. We are betrothed.”

Harry jerked away so violently that he almost fell into the fountain. “We’re _what_!?”

Voldemort arched an eyebrow. “You do know what betrothed _means_ , don’t you?”

Harry spluttered. “We can’t be betrothed!” he exclaimed, standing to put a comfortable breadth between himself and Voldemort. “We’re both – you are –!”

“Go on, Harry; I know you’re capable of constructing an entire sentence.”

“This is insane!” Harry ran his hands up through his hair, gripping it at the roots. “Are you screwing with me? Is that what you’re doing?”

“Well, I do intend there to be some form of screwing at some point in our relationship, but that is not what is currently happening, no.”

His mouth fell open in a horrified gape. “I’m-!” He abruptly stood. “Going back to my room. Right now.”

Voldemort made no attempt to stop him. “Take a shower while you’re there. You smell atrocious.”

“Good!” he snapped, stomping away.


	3. Anything for a friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I want to thank everyone for the feedback I've received so far! It's all been very encouraging!

Harry hated how amicable Voldemort was being. It was jarring to go from six years worth of murder attempts (seven if you counted their first encounter) to idle conversation over dinner; he didn’t know how to react to it. Voldemort was treating Harry’s captivity like a game, and Harry couldn’t figure out if it was a game of endurance or mind tricks. The only thing Harry knew for certain was that he wouldn’t like what would happen when Voldemort grew tired of batting Harry around like a cat playing with its food.

When he wasn’t fretting over having his archenemy as a host, he was trying to adapt to his new life (or lack thereof) while retaining some vestiges of dignity. At Voldemort’s insistence he had started to take advantage of the mansions facilities. He had initially tried to refuse, but upon finding out – in the most humiliating, mortifying way possible – that Voldemort had no qualms with forcing him to use said facilities, Harry had decided that being obedient was less humiliating than the alternative. If he was honest, it was actually kind of nice to have access to things like hot water and soap for the first time in almost a year. He’d grown so used to bathing in cold water that he’d almost forgotten how enjoyable a hot bath could be.

He was encouraged to access the library as well. Draco was forced to keep an eye on him while he was in there, and neither of them would say a word to each other despite being in the same vicinity. Draco never even _looked_ at Harry unless necessary, and when he did, there were hints of distress on his pale face. Whatever Voldemort’s instructions had been regarding Harry, they were clearly causing Draco anxiety. Harry might have felt sorry for him under different circumstances.

‘Might’ being the operative word; he was a compassionate person, but Draco _had_ tormented him relentlessly for almost all of his time at Hogwarts. No matter how downtrodden he currently was, he was still an entitled brat who thought mocking an orphan was the height of comedy. This was likely the first time in his entire life he had experienced hardship. Those who had chosen to stand by Harry during the war of Hogwarts would have it much worse.

Voldemort had yet to divulge more information on his friends, and he tried not to dwell on what their fates might have been. He fell into a state of despondency when he thought about what horrible things they could be suffering through while he was clothed, fed, and given access to luxuries such as books and fresh water. It impeded his ability to think clearly, to come up with a plan of escape and rescue. On more than one occasion he had spent hours agonizing over them instead of doing something constructive. When he wasn’t too occupied with his thoughts to focus, he spent his time researching wandless magic or mapping out the Malfoy mansion. He didn’t have a solid plan; he rarely ever did, but those were his current guidelines for a route out of this mess.

There were plenty of books in the library that featured wandless magic as a topic. The only problem was, Harry was having a hard time employing his newfound information. So far all he had managed to do was inch a book across a table. He couldn’t focus his magic well enough to do anything more advanced. Considering he had teleported, blown up his aunt, and grown out his hair in his youth without need of a wand, he was a little disappointed that wandless magic wasn’t coming to him as naturally as he would have liked. If he could blow up his aunt in a moment of anger, why couldn’t he apparate if he thought of safety really, really hard? It was maddening.

It was only after a fortnight of pushing that book across the library table that Harry finally decided he ought to try to something different, and that something different was talking to Draco. If he engaged the other Malfoy’s in conversation, they wouldn’t tell him anything useful. Narcissa and Lucius were much too old and much too wise to slip up in the way Draco was wont to do.

He waited until it was nearly time for him to be escorted to bed before approaching his former classmate, coming up to him with a thick red book in hand. He extended it to him for his inspection.

“I want to take this back to my room.”

Draco’s eyes snapped to the cover of the book. It was a fictitious work; nothing in it could be used to get Draco in trouble.

“Fine, but you have to put it back tomorrow.”

Harry blinked owlishly, surprised by Draco’s reply. “Really? You’re actually going to let me borrow it?”

“It’s not my decision,” Draco said, eyeing Harry warily. His focus was on Harry’s teeth, but there wasn’t anything there for him to see. Harry’s fangs weren’t a permanent feature like Tom’s were. “Does this mean you’re finally getting comfortable, Potter? It’s about time. I’m getting bored of being your babysitter.”

Harry wasn’t going to let himself be indignant. He forced a smile. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up. Voldemort isn’t-“

“Don’t say his name,” Draco snapped, his eyes darting around at a hummingbirds pace, as though afraid Voldemort would emerge from the shadows to chastise Harry for his impudence.

“Fine, _you-know-who_ ,” Harry continued. “He’s not going to let me wander around unsupervised anytime soon, so you’re going to be stuck being my ‘babysitter’ for a while yet.”

“It wouldn’t matter even if you weren’t being supervised,” said Draco, and then snapped his mouth shut, his brow wrinkling.

Harry’s attention was immediately piqued. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Let’s go.” Draco gestured for Harry to follow him into the hallway, already making long strides away from the library.

Harry followed suit. “Really? Nothing? Because it sounds like the role he’s given you is completely pointless.”

“Drop it, Potter.”

“Why is it pointless, though? Had he got up wards or something?”

Draco’s jaw was tight with frustration. “Why don’t you go ask him yourself?” he snapped, glaring over his shoulder at Harry. “He talks to you more than anyone else in this household!”

“I bet that pisses you right off, huh?”

His reply was a grunt. That was close enough to a ‘yes’ for Harry.

“It’s not that great, really,” said Harry as he tried to catch up to Draco. Being considerably shorter, he wasn’t quite managing to match his pace. “It’s actually pretty horrible. I think I’d rather spend quality time with a Hungarian horntail.”

Draco made a soft, tittering sound that betrayed amusement. The moment the sound escaped his mouth, he once again surveyed his surroundings, his eyes wide and fearful. “Shut it, would you? You’re going to get us both in trouble.”

“Is he in the house?” Harry peered around as well. “I thought he was out this evening?”

“That doesn’t mean he can’t hear us.”

Unease settled over Harry in the form of goosebumps. He ran his palms up and down his arms. “Can we… is there anywhere we could talk privately, then?”

Draco’s footsteps slowed. Harry could see the corner of his mouth curve into a frown. “What makes you think I would want to talk to you privately? I don’t even like that we’re talking _now_.”

Harry wetted his lips, and he was glancing around again, making sure they were alone. Assuming being alone was possible while in this house. “Because we’re both miserable.” A pause, and he added as extra incentive, “And I saved your life. I went back for you.”

Draco’s hands had curled into fists and his frown was no longer puzzled; it was now angry. “You have a habit of saving people’s lives,” he spat. “It doesn’t mean anything. I don’t owe you anything.”

“I never said you did, I just-!” Harry, too, was growing angry. He shook his head to calm himself. “If you don’t want to talk to me, at least tell me if Luna’s okay. You won’t get in trouble for that, will you?”

“It might get me in trouble, and I’m not eager to find out.”

Harry inhaled sharply. “Please…?”

There was a pause. “Telling you wouldn’t make any difference.”

“It would make me feel better.”

“Not it wouldn’t.”

Harry grimaced. That was his answer, then. “Oh.” The remainder of the walk was made in silence.

For the first time since arriving at the manor, Draco bid him goodnight with a curt nod. Harry opened his mouth to utter ‘goodnight’ in response, as was his instinct to do, but Draco closed the bedroom door on him before he could, locking it with an audible swish of his wand. Harry was left standing before the door with his mouth open, the nicety half-formed on his lips.

Still a prat, then.

He lay down in bed with his book, reading the words but not quite absorbing the information. Snippets of the conversation he’d just had with Malfoy would rise to the surface of his mind every time he attempted to finish reading a paragraph. It didn’t help that they would occasionally be supplemented with the disjointed workings of a plan. Eventually he closed the book and set it on the bedside table, staring up at the cream ceiling while he thought about what to do next.

Helping Luna was a priority. The more he learned of her situation, the direr it sounded. Something had to be done, and Harry was in a position where he could ask for mercy on her behalf. It would hurt his pride to give Voldemort the complete and utter compliance he was after, but if Luna could be transferred somewhere else as a result, somewhere less perilous, or perhaps be allowed to see Harry, it would be worth it. It wasn’t as if resisting Voldemort was getting him anywhere, anyway. So far all that had achieved was further humiliation.

First he would talk to Voldemort, then he would see what else he could squeeze out of Draco, assuming tonight hadn’t been a fluke. All going well he would be able to ensure Luna’s safety and find out the whereabouts of his friends. Short term goals.

 

* * *

 

 

It was during dinner the next day that Harry approached Voldemort. Night was when Tom was most relaxed, and subsequently more receptive to suggestion. Harry knew this because he wasn’t the only one who had taken advantage of Tom’s good mood; just last week Lucius had come to deliver some bad news regarding the Order, and instead of being angry, Voldemort had briefly chastised him with crucio and sent him on his way. He’d barely had a limp as he fled the room.

The bad news hadn’t been audible to Harry, who had been at the far end of the table. He’d only been able to make out the words ‘order’ and ‘attack’, which could mean a great many things. Since it was _bad_ news, he was hoping it meant the Order had either managed to repel an attack or successfully inflict one, though it was more likely to be the former than latter.

Voldemort watched him approach with rapt attention. This marked the first time Harry had ever willingly stepped into Voldemort’s personal space. He pulled out the chair closest to him, settling into it with a half-finished glass of blood in his hands. He’d brought it along just in case he needed to stall for thinking time.

“Er, hey,” he began, his voice hesitant. “I’ve been here a while now, so I was wondering if you could let Luna go, or let me see her.” A pause, and then he added, “Please.”

Voldemort looked like he was actually considering Harry’s request. “So this is why you behaved today, is it?”

“Yes.” Might as well admit it. Voldemort wouldn’t believe him if he denied his ulterior motive. “That’s what she’s here for, though, right? To make me behave. And I am.”

“You’re a little more clever than people give you credit for, aren’t you, Potter.”

Harry shrugged, saying nothing.

“Very well,” continued Voldemort, but he held up a hand to forestall interruption. “You may see her, but I expect something in return.”

Harry had been anticipating this. “I don’t really have anything,” he said, running a thumb over the rim of his glass. It created a faint squealing noise. “I mean, I’d offer the contents of my vault, but you hardly need it.”

Voldemort’s mouth stretched into a broad smile. His red eyes were twinkling. “Oh, I’m sure you can think of _something_.”

“Something?” Harry started to colour when he noticed Voldemort was _leering_ at him. “You mean...? Unless you’re implying something else.”

“I’m not.”

“Oh. Okay. Okay then.”

“I’ll expect you tonight, then, shall I?”

Harry swallowed, his throat feeling tight. He couldn’t bear to look at Voldemort as he replied. “W-what time?”

“Past midnight. I don’t tire until at least one.”

“Okay.” He focused on the sensation of skin against glass. “But if I’m going to do this, I want to see her more than just once. I’ll – I’ll go to you at night if you let me see her.”

“It is fortunate for you that Lord Voldemort is a charitable host. Three days a week should suffice.”

Harry swallowed again. “When do I get to see her?”

“Noon,” answered Voldemort. “I’ll have Draco escort her to the library Monday through Wednesday.”

“And how long will I get to see her for?”

“As long as I deem reasonable.”

Harry nodded. He wasn’t going to be able to get a better answer than that.

At a loss for what to say next, he decided to finish what was left in his glass, swallowing it all in one gulp. When he was finished, he set the glass on the table and turned to Tom, waiting to be excused.

Voldemort didn’t even speak until he’d finished his own meal. “You may go.”

He staggered up from his chair and exited the room. The way he walked, so stiff and awkward, made it obvious he was struggling not to break into a run. Once at the stairs, he leapt up them two steps at a time and almost slipped upon reaching the landing, managing to catch himself on the rails before he fell.  He threw his back up against the door once he had reached his room.

Tonight he was going to have his first sexual encounter, and it was going to be with _Voldemort_. Not Ginny, not Cho, but the man who had killed his parents, who had spent the last six years tormenting him and his friends. He ran his fingers through his messy black hair, a frustrated groan whistling past clenched teeth. What was Voldemort’s idea of sex, anyway? Wham, bam, thank you ma’am? He hoped so. That would mean it would be over with quickly.

It would be worth it to see Luna, though. As long as she was with Harry, he could sneak her luxuries like soap and fresh water and good food. He might even be able to convince Draco to lend her a bathroom. Assuming Voldemort didn’t force them to remain in the library, that was.

He took a few stumbling steps into his room and perched himself on the edge of his bed, hands cupped in his lap. The distress that had rocketed through him was now starting to recede. His head felt clearer. That he would have to sleep with Tom tonight was still a source of anxiety, but the more he thought about it, about what it would be like and _why_ he was doing it, the less stressed he felt. Everything he’d heard about sex indicated it didn’t last long. Surely, after being celibate for so long, Voldemort wouldn’t last longer than a few minutes?

Harry decided, after several long seconds of contemplation, that he would be better off _not_ thinking about Voldemort’s sexual stamina. He flopped back onto his mattress, limbs spread, and started to plan what he would do for Luna instead.

Tomorrow morning he would sneak soap out of the bathroom before leaving for breakfast, and after breakfast he would ask Draco - or maybe even Voldemort - for some biscuits. The sweet kind; not the bloody kind. Soap would be useless on its own, so he would have to convince Draco to let Luna go to the loo before she was made to return to her cell.

The clock chimed just as Harry had started to get relaxed. As he did every day before bed, he took it down from the wall, glanced at the time, and then stuffed it into a drawer. As long as he put it back when he woke up, he never got in trouble for it.

It was only eight pm. There were still several hours to wait before Voldemort expected him in his sleeping quarters. Without bothering to change out of his day clothes, Harry slid beneath his sheets and closed his eyes; a nap would do him some good.

 

* * *

 

 

One o’clock arrived. Harry was standing outside Voldemort’s bedchambers, his breath held. He stared at the doorknob like it was the most intimidating obstacle he’d ever been faced with. Eventually he opted to knock instead.

“It’s, er. It’s me.”

There was the squeal of a chair being pushed across floorboards, then footsteps. The door knob turned and the door swung open. Voldemort greeted him with a broad smile.

“There you are, Harry.” He swung his arm out in invitation. “Come, I’ve prepared the bed for you.”

Harry slowly exhaled, letting himself breathe. He didn’t want to be visibly nervous. His first step into the room was stiff and awkward, his wide eyes jolting from corner to corner as he surveyed the room. It was larger than his own, naturally, with a thick red carpet that felt like clouds beneath his feet. All the furniture was either constructed of ebony or pink Ivory, and were occasionally combined for aesthetic purposes. Harry only recognized them because he’d seen them used as the base of wands. There was a desk at the far end of the room with a book spread out on it. Squinting, Harry realized it wasn’t a book he was looking at, but a journal.

“Curious?” asked Voldemort, startling him out of his examination.

“I was just-!”

“Don’t make excuses. You won’t be punished for your curiosity.” The elder man brushed past him and plucked the leather-bound diary off the desk. He extended it to Harry, who proceeded to stare at it stupidly until Voldemort forced it into his hands.

“Read it.”

“Er, okay.” He looked down at the page the journal was open to and frowned, because the words weren’t in English, nor any other language he was familiar with. They were smooth, curving letters that were clearly derived from the English alphabet, but that didn’t help Harry understand what they meant.  When he looked up at Voldemort for some indication of what he should do, one of his thin white hands slid over Harry’s scalp and forced him to resume examining the letters.

“You can read it,” he said gently. “You just need to focus.”

“I am focusing,” Harry muttered. He squinted at the text again, trying to comprehend it. It just looked like a butchered version of the English language to him.

“Read it out loud,” Voldemort instructed.

Harry did as he was told, and was surprised to find himself talking in a language he did understand. “ ** _This is Parseltongue_**?” he hissed, and then grimaced, forcing himself to speak English. “This is Parseltongue?”

“You shouldn’t be ashamed to speak in the language I gifted you.” Voldemort pried the journal out of his hands, returning it to his desk. “Lord Voldemort through it prudent to construct a script version of the language for his personal archives. You’re the first to be privy to it.”

“Oh…” Harry didn’t know what else to say to that. He squeezed his toes into the plush carpet, watching them disappear beneath the red.

“Is that all you have to say?” He heard Voldemort sigh. “I see Lucius’ tutelage is _direly_ needed.”

“Lucius?” Harry practically gasped the name. “You can’t be serious? He doesn’t know how to teach!”

“I don’t recall asking for your opinion.”

“But he _hates_ me.”

“Not to worry, Potter.” Voldemort’s hand dropped from Harry’s head to grasp his forearm, pulling him towards the bed. Harry looked at it with growing trepidation. “He fears disappointing me more than he hates you.”

Harry didn’t protest as he was made to lie down on the mattress. He closed his eyes, listening to his heartbeat thumping hard against his ribs. If he just closed his eyes and thought about something else, anything else, he might be able to get through this without either making a sound or moving involuntarily. He didn’t want to do anything that could be interpreted as encouragement.

His traitorous mouth emitted a squeak as Tom settled into bed beside him. He clamped his teeth over his bottom lip, silencing any additional noises.

The light was turned off. Deceptively thin arms wrapped around his waist, pulling him into Tom’s broad chest. He felt the man’s hair on his cheek and shivered. Cold lips descended on his neck, pressing kisses to the bite mark that lingered there. The contact, however soft and gentle it was, made the muscles in his neck tense.

“Are you tired?” Voldemort asked. His voice was so mellow that Harry wondered if it was him that was tired.

He licked his lips. “Does it matter? I already made a deal with you.”

“To share my bed.” Voldemort’s breath was cold on the back of his neck. “Despite what you clearly believe, I have no intention of bedding someone who has no desire to reciprocate.”

“…Excuse me?”

“I’m not going to bed you, Harry.”

Harry blinked rapidly. Voldemort was turning out to have more morals than he’d ever thought possible. After a moment of hesitation, he reached up to remove his glasses, setting them on the bedside table.

“So I just… lie here until morning?”

“And sleep, preferably.”

Harry wasn’t sure how to respond. He’d gotten himself all worked up for coitus, and they were just going to… _lie_ there? He’d already slept in preparation for tonight. He wasn’t even remotely tired anymore.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” he asked in a whisper.

“It wasn’t I that jumped to conclusions.”

Harry flushed. “I’m a little too tense to go to sleep now.”

“Count sheep.”

“That doesn’t work with me.”

The grip on his waist shifted. Riddle was making himself comfortable. “Then try something else.”

In the darkness of the room, Harry was able to make out a mantelpiece on the far end wall. He examined the items atop it for several minutes, completely silent, and then when he felt sufficiently relaxed, he closed his eyes. It still took him a good hour before he fell asleep.


End file.
